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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29144241">Over the Line</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSopherfly/pseuds/TheSopherfly'>TheSopherfly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Forests, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Mercenaries, Nature, Other, POV Second Person, References to troubled past, Running, Shapeshifter, Sparring, wolf - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:22:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,747</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29144241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSopherfly/pseuds/TheSopherfly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re part of the Avengers initiative, one of only five new cadets, one of only two enhanced. You’re a shapeshifter. It’s not a common enhancement. And you can’t shift into anything you want. All you have is the wolf. The wolf makes you fast and strong and fierce. But it makes you wild, too. And sometimes that wildness is entirely beyond your control. </p><p>((POV second person. This work was written with a Female Reader in mind, but can be read as a Reader of any gender.))</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Marvel Reverse Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Over the Line</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145030">dendrophile</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodeNameEmma/pseuds/CodeNameEmma">CodeNameEmma</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the MRBB based on the prompt 'a shapeshifting girl' and <a href="https://thestorydetective.tumblr.com/">thestorydetective's</a> wonderful art. Check it out <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145030">here</a>! Thanks to Li for beta reading.</p><p>Rated M for implied sexual content.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The fifteen-acre estate of the Avengers training compound has always felt like a vast wilderness. The forest tucked back in the western corner is your favorite place, and not just because you like to hide there. It’s full of life. Flowers. On your days off, you slip away with your watercolors to paint them. Sometimes you bring a mug of coffee and sit back against one of the trees, watching the wind move through the leaves. It’s peaceful, usually. Unless you’re feeling especially restless.</p><p>Today is one of those days. You find yourself caught in the trenches of emotion, no way out, no way through. Everything is overwhelming. Everything makes you sad. Angry. Your patience has evaporated into thin air, and the wolf under your skin wants to snap and snarl whenever anyone looks in your direction.</p><p>You’re part of the Avengers initiative, one of only five new cadets, one of only two enhanced. You’re a shapeshifter. It’s not a common enhancement. And you can’t shift into anything you want. All you have is the wolf. The wolf makes you fast and strong and fierce. But it makes you wild, too. And sometimes that wildness is entirely beyond your control. </p><p>It’s gotten better. Barnes has helped you get it under control. Breathing. Meditating. Accepting that you’ll always have something inside your head that isn’t entirely yours. It cannot own you, but you can’t push it out. The best way to deal with it is to find balance. </p><p>And when you can’t do that, you run. </p><p>It had been Barnes’s idea. A specific outlet, one that the wolf would take to. One that would exert energy and promote focus.</p><p>It feels more natural than anything. And it’s easy to use running as an excuse to get away because everyone thinks it’s discipline and not desperation. You’re just making sure you meet all your physical requirements as a future Avenger.</p><p>Today has been a bad day. And so you run. You shift into the wolf as soon as your feet hit the pavement. Security at the compound knows all about each enhanced and their specific powers and abilities. Nobody’s going to be scared. Nobody’s going to stop you. Your vision narrows to the path in front of you, and you move quickly from a slow trot into a full-blown run, your paws hitting the ground in rhythm one at a time, your canine lungs taking in air, your canine body driving you forward much faster than your human one.</p><p>The wolf streamlines your thoughts. It’s not a true solution to your problems, but it calms the background noise well enough. Barnes says that’s better than nothing. He’s right. You’re glad you’ve been paired with Barnes. It’s sort of fitting, since they call him the White Wolf.</p><p>As soon as you round the turn headed back toward the compound, you shift back into your human form, the transition almost seamless. You’ve been practicing shifting mid-stride. Your human feet hit the ground, and you feel the bounce and support of your shoes underneath you, feel the change in your muscles as your quads and glutes and calves fire to propel you forward. Your mind is blissfully quiet. </p><p>You’re not sure how long you run for. Long enough that you’ve made one full loop around the track. How many miles is that? Ten? Fifteen? Somebody had told you once, but you can’t remember now. The compound’s high reflective windows gleam, the sunlight finally breaking through the cloud cover. You slow your pace, struggling to come to a stop as the pavement turns to gravel. There’s too much momentum going now, and you sort of stumble, then deliberately flop down onto the grass, flat on your back. You breathe hard, rubbing a hand over your face.</p><p>“That doesn’t look very comfortable,” someone says. You see them moving toward you in your periphery.</p><p>“It’s actually amazing,” you reply. You stretch your arms up as far as you can, and it feels almost as good as the support of the ground. </p><p>The man laughs. “Maybe I’ll have to try it sometime.” </p><p>Suddenly you recognize the man’s voice. <em> Shit. </em> You blink, and then he’s standing over you, offering his hand. You take it, allowing him to haul you to your feet as if you weigh nothing at all. You come to a polite parade rest, hands clasped behind your back. “Captain.” </p><p>Blonde hair falls into his face, and he brushes it away, flashing a smile. “Call me Steve.”</p><p>Charisma radiates off of him in waves. His civilian clothes aren’t fooling anyone - it’s easy to see his strength just by the way he stands. You see confidence and power in his eyes, humor in his handsome face. Just being near him is overwhelming. It’s no wonder people are willing to follow him to the ends of the earth. </p><p>You’ve been training with his best friend, and somehow you’ve never met. Probably because Captain America is not only the leader of the Avengers, but also the face of the Avengers for the press. He’s either been out on missions or dealing with the media. </p><p>You hadn’t expected to meet him like this. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Alright. <em> Steve</em>.” It sounds wrong, the same way using Barnes’s ‘Bucky’ sounds wrong. It’s too familiar. He’s your Captain, not your friend. Still, there’s something kind in his eyes that puts you at ease. “What’re you doing commingling with cadets?”</p><p>“Things got boring upstairs,” he jokes, and you're surprised to find that it makes you smile. “I’m going on a run tomorrow morning,” he continues. “You should come.”</p><p>“No way. I’ll never be able to keep up.” You frown. “Hang on. Do you even know who I am?”</p><p>“Of course I do. You’ve been training with Buck, right?” You nod. “You don’t need to worry about keeping up. Based on what I just saw, I think you’d hold your own.” </p><p>You narrow your eyes, suspicious and maybe a little interested. “Were you watching me?”</p><p>“I saw you crest the hill back there.” He almost sounds proud. You feel something warm blooming in your chest.  “Meet me here at sunrise.”</p><p>“Is that an order?”</p><p>There’s a glint in Steve’s eye when he responds, “I’m not your commanding officer. Yet.” </p><p>Not a yes or a no. You tilt your head, thoughtful. “Alright,” you say, deciding you have nothing to lose. “I’ll see you then.”</p><p>~</p><p>Your nightmares wake you up before dawn. You sit bolt upright in bed, swiping hair out of your face and covering your eyes with the heels of your hands. Whenever you dream as the wolf, everything is so <em> visceral. </em> So out of control. It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not, even after the dream has disappeared and the room has come into focus. </p><p>This time you’d dreamt about your handlers. They’d been part of a mercenary crew that had used the wolf to track targets. You hadn’t killed anyone. But you’d known that bad things always happened to the people you’d tracked and caught.</p><p>You think back to your interview with Natasha, the day she’d accepted you into the Avengers training program. </p><p>
  <em> “I’ve done a lot of things,” you’d said. “Bad things. I want to make up for them.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I understand,” Natasha had replied. “You have red in your ledger and you want to wipe it out.” </em>
</p><p>You rub the back of your neck, then head for the shower, trying to wash away the memories of bad dreams with scalding water before meeting Steve out front.</p><p>It turns out that you can keep up with Steve Rogers, after all. You keep pace with him, your cadence just a hair faster than his. You run three full laps, and by the time you’re done, your legs are jelly and you’re stumbling as you follow Steve into the building in search of towels. You find them piled in the gym, and Steve tosses you one, then grabs one of his own, wiping his face.</p><p>“Starting this afternoon, you’re training with the Avengers.”</p><p>You nearly drop the towel on the floor. <em> What? </em>“Was that run just some kind of test that I passed?”</p><p>“No. You were scheduled for transfer anyway. I just don’t like to train people I don’t know.”</p><p>That’s just too cheeky to tolerate. “You think you know me just because we went running together?”</p><p>“I know you enough.”</p><p>This feels like <em> flirting</em>, which probably isn’t a good idea, but you can’t help but answer him with a teasing, “Oh really? Alright then. Tell me about myself.”</p><p>“You’re stubborn. Competitive. Connected with your emotions, but easily overwhelmed by them. You’re a shapeshifter. And it makes you strong. Almost as strong as me.”</p><p>He knows a lot more than you’d thought. Barnes has been talking about you behind your back. And you suppose that’s his job, to tell his Captain what he knows about the new recruits, but it still stings a little. You purse your lips in irritation. “You didn’t learn all of that on our run.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t.” He smiles, looking pleased with himself. Maybe a little pleased with you, too, and you don’t know how to respond to that except to lick your dry lips. “I’ve gone over Bucky’s notes,” he continues, “but I want to hear from you, too. Talk to me about how the wolf affects your head.”</p><p>You blink, images from your nightmares flashing through your head. <em> No. It’s not like that anymore. </em> You have control now. </p><p>“It’s not like it used to be,” you say. “I’m not aggressive anymore. Not <em> as </em> aggressive, anyway. The prey drive is… still a problem sometimes.” </p><p>“Problem enough to derail a mission?”</p><p>“Depends on the prey.” You don’t mean for it to sound like an innuendo, but it does. Steve doesn’t comment on it. </p><p>“I won’t send you out without giving you parameters,” he says. “I trust you to be honest with me about when those parameters are going to be a problem for you.”</p><p>You nod your agreement, making a deal with yourself that no parameters will ever be a problem. </p><p>“Good,” Steve says. “Now go get suited up.”</p><p>~</p><p>Training with the Avengers - all of the Avengers, not just Barnes - is harder than you’d thought. There’s a learning curve, and not just because these people are so good at what they do. They’re also incredibly connected to each other. They can anticipate each other. They know how to back each other up without being asked.</p><p>It takes a few weeks, but you start to pick it up. Maybe you’re cheating, since the wolf makes your senses that much sharper. You learn Steve’s command style. You can tell what he’s going to order before he orders it. You find your groove, find where you fit inside the bigger Avengers machine. It’s still not easy. But now at least you’re not behind.</p><p>You figure out that even though Steve’s not trying to flirt with you, it happens often enough to make you think he’s not trying to stop himself, either. You’re left to fight your impulse to flirt back, with middling success. The Avengers aren’t a typical combat team. Maybe the rules for off-duty behavior are a little different. Or maybe the team has agreed to ignore the rules altogether. Either way, you find yourself struggling to understand where the boundary is. Steve is your leader. When you shift into the wolf, your attention is fixed on him like an obedient dog and its trainer. When you shift back, sometimes it’s hard to divert your attention. </p><p>After weeks of intense training, the team finally has a weekend off, and you spend it outside as the wolf, exploring more of the grounds. You don’t expect to catch Steve’s scent, but as soon as you do, your ears perk up as you follow it, tracking him through the trees and the brush until you come to a clearing. There he is, sitting on a log, sketchbook in hand. You lie down flat on your stomach, head down, watching him. You wonder how long it’ll be until he notices you.</p><p>Not long, as it turns out. He senses something before he spots you crouched in the underbrush, but it’s only a few seconds before his eyes meet yours. You wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t - he just looks at you, inquisitive. Slowly, carefully, you rise and trot toward him, not stopping until you’ve entered his personal space. Without thinking, you drop your head onto his thigh, looking up at him. It isn’t appropriate. It’s so much more familiar than you would ever be with him in human form. You wait for him to push you away. He raises an eyebrow, then reaches out to stroke the top of your head, hands moving down to slide into the fur on your neck.</p><p>You stay like that for endless seconds. When you finally back up and shift back into human form, he stares at you a long time without saying anything. Not sure you’re ready to break the silence, you sit down beside him, not touching, but not far away. </p><p>“What do you draw?” you ask finally. </p><p>“People. Places. Sometimes just things from my imagination.” </p><p>“Can I see?”</p><p>Reluctantly, Steve hands the sketchbook over. You flip through the pages slowly, carefully, your eyes sweeping over each drawing to take in the small details. He’s good at this. Talented. There are drawings of the compound, the forest, and a few of Tony Stark’s outrageously expensive cars. There are a few portraits, too. A couple of Barnes. One of Peggy. When you come to the page with a monkey on a unicycle, you hold it out to him. “Real or imaginary?”</p><p>Steve cracks a smile. “Imaginary.”</p><p>Satisfied, you hand the sketchbook back to him. “I paint,” you say. You slip your phone out of your pocket and unlock the screen, scrolling through your photos until you find a few pictures of your watercolor paintings. <em> Tit for tat, right? </em>You hold it out in front of him. “I’m not very good.”</p><p>He scrolls through the photos, then says, “I disagree.”</p><p>You roll your eyes and shove your phone back into your pocket. “No accounting for taste,” you reply, hoping he doesn’t notice the way you brighten at the praise. </p><p>~</p><p>Your first mission goes off without a hitch. It’s a simple locate-and-return scenario, and you spend most of the time as the wolf, tracking and chasing. Easy. Nobody gets hurt. </p><p>In the debrief, you find yourself distracted. Distracted by Steve. The line between Captain and friend - maybe more than friend - is getting blurrier. It probably doesn’t help that you run with him every other day. You find yourself getting sidetracked by his smile, his lips, his <em> scent</em>. It becomes so overpowering you have to shake your head to clear it, to get the wolf to subside. <em> You won’t be any good to anyone if all you can think about is how good Steve Rogers smells and how pretty his mouth is. </em></p><p>You make a point to avoid Steve for the next few days, training with Barnes and Natasha instead. The compound is big, but it isn’t that big - it’s not long before you run into Steve again. The gym is usually quiet at this time of day, but as you approach the double doors, you see Steve through the window. You think about turning around, then pause when you notice the effort he’s putting into his punches. The tension radiates off of him. Every hit lands with enough force to make the room rattle. You can’t help but be fascinated by it. You’re drawn toward his energy, and before you know it you’re pushing the door open, stepping into the room and leaning against the wall to observe him more closely. He’s too preoccupied to notice. You stare at him for another minute. </p><p>“You know,” you say, finally announcing yourself, “you’re going to break that bag if you’re not careful.”</p><p>Steve drops his hands and whirls around, his surprise melting when he sees you. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”</p><p>You push off from the wall and take a few steps forward. “I can’t imagine Stark will appreciate you wrecking his equipment.”</p><p>“It’s insured.”</p><p>You smirk, amused. “Dealing with insurance is a pain in the ass.” You don’t mean to, but you look him up and down. He’s a beautiful, sweaty mess. “Spar with me instead. I promise to be a little less breakable.” Damn it, you’re flirting again. <em> And </em> you’ve just suggested putting your minimally clothed and sweaty bodies together in close combat, which will only lead to endorphins and adrenaline and very dangerous territory. It’s a bad idea - but it’s too late to take it back. Some part of you doesn’t even want to. </p><p>You bring your fists up to guard your face, dropping down into your fighting stance.</p><p>Steve is a better fighter than you are. He’s had a lot more practice. But you’re younger, smaller, and faster, and you manage to get a few punches in under his guard just by virtue of your speed. He’s not used to taking on someone quite so much shorter than him, but he adjusts quickly, and soon he’s got an impenetrable defense. Every punch and kick you throw at him, he blocks. You’re fast enough that it’s hard for him to land a hit, and the fight becomes less of a fight and more of a dance, both of you bobbing and weaving and circling around each other, reaching out but never quite touching. You cringe at the way it feels like a metaphor for your relationship.</p><p>You don’t realize it at first, but your endurance is better than his. You can pay attention for longer. Somehow, you’re less distracted, and finally he makes a mistake. He telegraphs his step forward with a shift of his foot, and then you have him. Your leg goes under his and pulls it forward. He loses his balance and falls backward onto the mat, but at the last second, he grabs your arm and pulls you down with him. You land in a messy heap, sweaty bodies briefly entangled, and you scramble to keep him from finding his footing, straddling his hips and pinning him with an arm on his chest. He’s breathing so hard that your body rises with his on every inhale.</p><p>“Had enough?” you ask. </p><p>He grins. In one swift motion, he has your positions reversed, one big hand holding your wrists above your head. “I could do this all day.”</p><p>You struggle against his grip for a few seconds, then let your head fall back onto the mat. “Not fair.”</p><p>There’s electricity between you now that wasn’t there before. Steve’s jaw is set, his gaze intense. He releases your wrists so fast it’s as if he’s been burned, and one of your hands ends up on his shoulder, though you’re not sure whether you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away. You stay like that for infinite minutes, his body pressed into yours, your breaths ragged. You feel his arms tremble with the effort of holding himself over you. For a brief flash of a second, you imagine him crowding closer, letting you take his full weight.</p><p>It would be so easy to close the distance, to lift up on your elbows and kiss the hard expression off his face. But something - propriety? Or maybe fear? - keeps you still and silent on the mat.</p><p>
  <em> What’re you so afraid of? </em>
</p><p>Besides going against regs? This is Steve Rogers. You’re teammates - he’s your commander. And Captain America or not, Steve comes with a deadly dose of old-school emotional repression and about a thousand pounds of baggage. Not that you don’t have baggage, too, everyone does - but Steve’s… well. You’re not sure you’re the right person to help him carry it. You can barely carry your own.</p><p>“Steve,” you say, not sure what it means even as you say it.</p><p>Before Steve can reply, the door to the gym swings open. Steve jumps to his feet in record time, and you sit up, still trying to regulate your breathing. Wilson walks in, oblivious - or maybe politely ignoring what he knows is an awkward situation - and heads toward the locker room. “Hey guys,” he says as he passes and disappears into the next room.</p><p>You meet Steve’s eyes. His face is carefully blank, like he’s swallowed every feeling down. Like he hadn’t just been lying on top of you.</p><p>It makes you mad. Not because he’s not affected, but because he’s trying to pretend he’s not. And he’s succeeding. You get a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. This man may want to be physically close to you, he may act familiar with you, but he’s still wearing a mask. </p><p>Your lips curl back, and you make a face that must resemble the wolf baring its teeth. “Captain,” you say, unable to keep the frustration out of your voice as you get to your feet. “I’ll see you later.”</p><p>A hot shower and thirty minutes of meditation later, and you’ve finally calmed down enough to understand why you’re upset in the first place. It’s not that liking Steve is wrong. It’s not that he flirts and doesn’t follow through. It’s that no matter what, he’s always holding back. Always concealing something. Repressed had been exactly the right word for it. It’s something you can’t relate to, can’t even fathom. Your emotions boil too close to the surface. You still struggle to stay in control, while Steve struggles to let his guard down even for a second. </p><p>All your ill-advised intimacy aside, you wonder if you really know anything about him at all. His feelings, his fears, they’re a complete mystery. Maybe it’s better if you let them stay that way.</p><p><em> Too bad you want the opposite. </em> You’re dying to know what’s under that hard exterior. To get close enough to see who Steve Rogers is, without Captain America to hide behind. </p><p>You don’t see him again until the next day, when you’re called out to another mission. He’s waiting on the Quinjet when you trudge up the ramp, combat armor making you feel weighed down. You look up at him, then say cooly, “I’m sorry about the gym. Won’t happen again.”</p><p>Steve doesn’t say anything, and you wonder if you’re imagining the flicker of disappointment in his eyes as you turn away to find your seat.</p><p>~</p><p>Your second mission doesn’t go well.</p><p>You’ve never seen death before. Not in person. The image lingers, even as you sit in the cold sterility of the Quinjet. The smell lingers, too, and you wish for once that you could shut off your senses. Erase the memories. Wipe out the emotions clawing at your dry throat. </p><p>Nobody says a word. There’s tension in Natasha’s jaw and shoulders. You can’t see Wilson’s face, but you can sense sadness on him. Barnes looks like he might punch something. And Steve - Steve is entirely unreadable. Frustration makes you curl your hands into fists. What right does Steve have to be so calm when you’re so angry? You struggle for a few moments before dropping your head into your hands. Tears sting at your closed eyes, and you count your breaths, inhaling and exhaling the way Barnes had taught you. It helps, but barely.</p><p>Through the debrief, Steve’s face doesn’t change. He’s impassive. Unemotional. He criticizes the team’s lack of coordination, then praises you all for doing everything you could. Tells you to go get some rest. You don’t know why it bothers you so much. Steve is your leader. Maintaining his composure is part of the job. <em> No. Captain America is our leader. Steve Rogers is a soldier, and losing this fight has to be killing him. Why is he pretending it isn’t? </em> </p><p>Barnes walks out first, and Natasha follows him. Wilson leaves slowly, his body looking heavy under the weight of failure. Steve barely glances at you before squaring his shoulders and walking out.</p><p>You stay in your seat for a long time, your emotions too close to the surface. You drum your fingers on the table. You consider shifting just to drown out the noise, but you’re afraid that as soon as you become the wolf again you’ll flashback to the battle. To the bodies. To Steve’s face, emotionless, as he calls you all back to the Quinjet.</p><p>Something inside you snaps. You jump to your feet and storm out of the room, the door clanging as it swings open and hits the wall. You find Steve in the communal dressing room still stripping his gear, placing it methodically down the laundry chute, neat and folded and perfect. As if he isn’t affected at all. </p><p>“What the fuck was that?” you demand. Steve stills but doesn’t say anything. You wish he would respond. Anything would be better than the <em> nothing </em> on his face. <em> Reprimand me. Tell me I’m out of order and I need to cool off. Do something! </em> “Steve,” you try again, “we just watched someone <em> die</em>. And I don’t even know how you feel about it.” </p><p>Steve doesn’t respond. You growl, wishing you had something to hit. Instead, you start to tear at your combat armor, tugging at the buttons and zips much harder than necessary and peeling the suit off in one angry motion. “You play everything so close to the vest. I can hardly tell when you’re happy or sad, let alone anything else.” You all but throw the suit into the laundry chute. It clatters as it falls, the sound ringing in your ears. You turn to face Steve, frustration warring with empathy as you say, “Isn’t that just fucking exhausting?” </p><p>Steve shrugs, noncommittal, and you want to scream at the way he manages to keep everything in like that. How can he be so composed when you’re about to fall apart? He looks at you, searching your face, and you get the disquieting impression that he can see everything, all the anger and outrage and pain and sadness roiling just below the surface. After a beat, he says, “Yes. It’s exhausting. But nobody wants to see Captain America sad.”</p><p>That squeezes your heart in a way you don’t expect. <em> So you </em> are <em> sad, </em> you think. <em> Why don’t you ever show it? </em> Unable to control your impulse, you reach up, tracing Steve’s brow with your thumb while your fingers dance over the hard line of his jaw. It’s not appropriate, and it’s dancing straight over the line you’d promised not to cross, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “You can be sad with me,” you say, sounding stubborn and soothing all at once. </p><p>You expect him to resist, to pull away. But Steve leans into your touch, his lips grazing your palm as he speaks. “I don’t want to be sad with you.”</p><p>Your anger evaporates, and for an instant, your whole world is reduced to the brush of his lips on your skin. You can’t help but imagine those lips everywhere, skimming your bare shoulders, trailing over your collarbone. <em> Stop it</em>, you think, because that’s a distraction you don’t need, but the images don’t leave your mind, and Steve doesn’t pull away. His words rattle around in your head until you finally process what he means. He’s stepped over the line, too.</p><p>You should stop him. You should remind him that he’s the leader of the Avengers, and you’re still completing your training - you don’t even count as a fully-fledged member of the team. You should tell him about the things you’ve done. The red in your ledger. You should, but you can’t, not when he’s so close that you can hear his heartbeat. </p><p>“What,” you start, but your voice doesn’t cooperate. You swallow and try again. “What do you want to be?”</p><p>“Happy?” Steve laughs after he says it, like it somehow sounds ridiculous. “God, that’s…” He pauses, searching for the words. “It’s just… it’s hard for me sometimes. To be happy without feeling guilty for it.” </p><p>“Sometimes guilt is a choice,” you say in a near whisper. <em> I should know. </em></p><p>Steve shakes his head, forcing you to draw your hand away. “I can’t choose to not feel guilty.”</p><p>“You can choose not to let it define you,” you snap back, suddenly frustrated at him all over again. “Guilt isn’t who you are, Steve. Neither is sadness, neither is happiness. We aren’t our emotions, we are our <em> choices</em>. You don’t choose how you feel. You choose what you do with it.” You almost stop there, but your thoughts bubble into words before you can get ahold of them. “And to be perfectly honest, you’ve been doing nothing! You carry your whole past around with you like an albatross around your neck, but you don’t try to work through it, and nobody can help you because you won’t let anybody <em> see </em> you! You hide behind this stupid mask that you think makes you more in control, but really just keeps you closed off from everyone, and then you wonder why nobody will get close.”</p><p>Steve looks wounded, and you regret opening your big mouth. You let out a frustrated sigh. “Look, Steve.”</p><p>“You’ve gotten close,” he interrupts, meeting your eyes with steady intensity.</p><p><em> That’s different, </em> you want to say. <em> I don’t know what’s good for me. I’m compelled to act on instinct. I keep getting swept up in you by accident. </em> Not to mention that his emotional repression infuriates you, and you don’t <em> want </em> to get close, not when he’s not willing to let you in. </p><p>You rest your hands on his chest like you’re about to push him, or maybe stop him from going any further. You gasp when his hands find your waist, drawing you closer, so close that you have to tilt your head up. He asks for permission without saying a word, and you can’t find any words to answer. It’s impossible to speak, impossible to think with Steve’s mouth so close to yours, his palms warm and solid through the lightweight fabric of your tech tank. The dark, stormy blue of his eyes is somehow scalding. It makes you burn. You hold his gaze, unwavering. </p><p>Finally the tension snaps, and he leans down to close his lips over yours. </p><p>~</p><p><em> Oh, hell. </em> </p><p>It’s the only coherent thought that flashes through your mind before you kiss him back. You rise on your toes, lips sealing against Steve’s, fingers sliding through the short hair at the nape of his neck. His body is solid and stiff and warm against yours, and you open your mouth to him, to the sweep of his tongue and the spicy taste of cinnamon. A small shift and a step or two and Steve has you crowded back against the wall, and a noise escapes your lips as the skin of your shoulders meets the cold tile.</p><p>The rest is a blinding blaze of sound and sensation. Steve’s hands are on your back, on your arms, in your hair. Your lips find a spot on his neck that makes him moan, and you suck a deep purple mark into his flesh. Everything is touch and feeling and pure guttural instinct, and the faint voice in the back of your head reminding you to slow down is inaudible over the roar of your own blood rushing in your ears. </p><p>“Stop,” Steve rasps, his voice low and raw. Gently, he takes your wrists and holds your hands down at your sides, pressing his face into your neck to keep you from kissing him again. You close your eyes tightly, trying to regain control of your senses. There’s an urge to keep kissing, to keep going, <em> please, more, </em> and underneath it there’s an urge to <em> howl</em>. When you finally look up at him to meet his gaze, you’re sure your eyes are as black as coal. </p><p>You wait for him to apologize. To say it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t. He reaches out and strokes your cheek, and the intimacy of it makes you shiver.</p><p>“Are you alright?” he asks.</p><p>You lean your head back against the tile. “I have no idea.”</p><p>That makes him smile, humming a laugh through closed lips. “Do you want to stop?”</p><p>You shake your head. “No. But…” You sigh. “I want to <em> talk</em>. Whatever this is between us, I can’t - I can’t just…” Your mind is a mess, and you can’t unscramble your thoughts enough to make the words come out right.</p><p>“Okay,” Steve says, as if he understands. He drops a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. “Let’s talk.”</p><p>~</p><p>You wake the next morning not in your own bed. You blink, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes, then dragging your hands through your hair to pull it out of your face. You glance around. These are Steve’s quarters, you remember. He had agreed to talk somewhere private. This is about as private as it gets.</p><p>You take a deep breath, your mind working through your conversation from the night before. You remember asking questions, hard questions, and Steve answering them all like it was his duty not to leave a single detail out. You remember the pained expressions, the sadness, the abject hopelessness in his eyes, the way it had all pulled his lips down into a frown. You had touched those lips with gentle fingers and cradled his face in your hands, and he had kissed you, soft and desperate. You had ended up on his lap, hips and mouths slotting together perfectly, bodies moving together until everything went white.</p><p>Steve emerges from the other room, his hair still wet, his shirt clinging to his muscled chest. He smiles at you, and you allow yourself to smile back, confident that he’s finally dropped the impervious facade. He hops up onto the bed and reaches for you, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Good morning,” he says, his voice rough.</p><p>“Good morning,” you reply, tilting your head and allowing him to capture your lips with his.</p><p><em> So much for regulations</em>. You remember Steve saying something about how with the Avengers, it’s hard for teammates not to become attached in unexpected ways. The regulations might exist, but no one enforces them. </p><p><em> At least we won’t be in trouble, </em> you think, kissing Steve again, allowing yourself to enjoy it now and worry about the implications later<em>. </em></p><p>~</p><p> </p>
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